snapshots in reality
by FlopsyOllie
Summary: "She lifts the ice pack off of the bruise on her face and wonders how she could've let herself go." Quinn, living the life the fairytales forgot to mention. Eventual Quick. AU
1. Chapter 1

_I wrote a oneshot a while ago about Puck and Quinn (_fate wrapped in paper or plastic_). When I finished, I still couldn't get it out of my head. I wanted to see Quinn's side of the story more, so here it is. It's a bit of a companion piece, but you don't need to read the other one to understand (though it might make a bit more sense). Enjoy!_

_This thing's a monster (30 pages for a "oneshot"), so it'll be up in 3 parts, with probably a day or two in between._

* * *

**Snapshots in Reality**

_Past_

_It's a warm, breezy day in July, three years ago_. Her sundress is billowing around her knees, summer sun shining through the wine glass in her hand. She finds herself laughing, entertaining the friend of her father's who just told an only halfway decent joke. As the new golden Fabray, fresh from the University of Notre Dame with a bachelors degree in English and planning to enter the graduate program this fall, her parents are using every opportunity to show her off despite their disagreements. They don't think she needs to stay in school – she can get a perfectly nice job where she is now. She begs to differ. She actually _likes _school. She wants to learn more.

The place is undeniably sunny and bright, but as her mother waltzes over and says, "Honey, there's someone I want you to meet," she swears the sky gets a little darker; the breeze picks up a bit, freezing the smile on her face.

_Present day_, Quinn lifts the ice pack off of the bruise on her face and wonders how she could've let herself go. But she falls into the mirror again, and it is no mystery.

_The feeling returns to her face_ and she shakes his hand, palm enveloped in his grasp. He's quite handsome, and there's a strange glint in his eye. Her mother is grinning ear to ear.

"Michael Eaton," he says, flashing a million dollar smile, "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Quinn. I've heard a lot about you."

She blushes as her mother fusses over the two of them, smiling so hard her lipstick is cracking, "You remember the Eatons, don't you honey? Your father works with them. They came to church with us one Easter. Michael just graduated from Harvard."

"Two years ago," he chuckles, "I'm continuing school to become a lawyer. What about you, Quinn?"

"Oh, Quinnie just graduated from Notre Dame with an English degree. She wants to be a teacher."

She cuts a sideways glance at her mother, "Actually, I'm also continuing with the graduate program this fall. I'd like to get into editing, maybe even be a professor."

"That's a wonderful goal," he says as he reaches over and refills her wine glass, "I'm sure you'll do well."

He's charming. That's the exact word her mother uses as they're driving home. Just _charming. You'd be a lovely pair. I do wish you'd just try to meet someone, darling._

She stares out the window at the passing trees, remembering the way is hand felt on the small of her back as they danced. It wasn't bad. It was _nice_, but nice was all it was. He's too clean cut. Too… _ceramic_, as if he's a completely different person underneath the heat and shiny glaze, hollowed out and hiding secrets.

Maybe she's just trying too hard to defy her parents. Maybe she's paranoid. Maybe she should just try to play along and be good, for once.

He calls and she picks up the phone. It's the first missed opportunity. It won't be the last.

…

Michael makes life _comfortable_; that is certain. For their first date he takes her to the most expensive restaurant in town, buys her a bouquet of roses and kisses her on a balcony, Romeo and Juliet style. He always buys her new outfits he wants her to wear or silver jewelry encrusted with diamonds. Saying he's _rich_ would be an understatement.

She can't say she doesn't like it. How could she _not_? He takes her anywhere she wants to go. They spend the weekend at his parent's house on the lake, sunbathing on their private beach and going out on the water in their yhat. The cook has breakfast ready at seven, lunch at noon. She wears the new dress he bought her, a light shade of purple. She doesn't like purple much, but he says he does. It would be rude to tell him no.

It's then that she starts realizing the little things. Everything has to be lined up perfectly (the books on the shelves, the silverware, the money in his wallet). He projects this perfection on everyone around him, including her. If her hair is out of place, he asks her to brush it again. If her make up smears, he tells her to fix it. If he doesn't like her outfit, she has to change.

This isn't normal. She accepts it. It wouldn't be ethical to break up with him because of something like OCD.

Except it's not just a mental disorder. It's more than that.

They're having their first fight. She has class in half an hour. He doesn't want her to leave. They're arguing heatedly. His eyes keep getting smaller and smaller and the vein in his forehead is getting bigger. She's yelling about how she's paying for this class, he's wasting her money, and if he thinks that he can just stop her from-

_SLAP_

The blow across her face shocks her. She recoils, hand cupping her cheek, eyes boring into him. He looks just as angry, and then his face softens.

"Oh. I'm sorry, Quinn. I didn't mean to-"

_Oh. _Like that's all it is, a simple mistake. _Oh._

She leaves without saying anything. When she comes back after class, there are flowers and dinner waiting for her on the table.

"It won't happen again. I promise."

_But don't walk away from me while I'm talking to you ever again._

In retrospect, she doesn't know why she believed him. But she does. It's always easier to see the signs when you're standing on the other side of the battle.

She takes him back, not knowing how many times she will count these moments, again and again.

…

The second time he hurts her, it's a Sunday. They're getting ready to meet her parents at church. He's picking her up from her apartment and she's not ready yet. He honks the horn, yells down the hall, and finally storms into her room and grabs her wrist, squeezing until her face breaks and she cries out.

She changes her shirt to hide the red marks. In church, they ask for forgiveness for their sins. She wonders what he prays for as she strokes the black and blues underneath her sleeve.

…

She doesn't exactly remember when he started calling her names. That's probably a bad sign.

At first, they were side remarks, nonchalantly placed. _You're so stupid, I can't believe you burned the toast. _Sometimes, they're meant to be cute, like he's actually helping. _You're a silly woman, I don't know what you'd do without me._

Eventually, they become blatant. _Learn how to do it right next time, idiot. I don't know why I stay with someone as needy as you._

If she makes a mistake, she's stupid. If she talks to her male friends, she's a slut or she's cheating on him. If she asks a question, she's an idiot. If she wants him to help her, she's weak and needy. Nothing is ever enough for him and yet everything is too much. Once she finally thinks she's learned the rules, they've changed again.

He hits her when he gets upset, usually after she's done something stupid to make her an _idiot _or a _slut _or _weak._

_What would she do if he wasn't there to point out all her flaws? Just how would she survive?_

In her head, it's meant to be sardonic, yet it's terrifying how a tiny voice in her brain actually _believes it._

Yet her mother smiles wildly whenever she sees them together and he places his arm around her shoulder and she leans into him, and everything almost feels alright. His parents like her, her parents like him. They are the perfect couple who kiss underneath the stars. So there is some "discipline" here and there (that's what she calls it when she wants to fool herself). So what? Who's to say that's abnormal? No one talks about it. Who's to say it doesn't happen all the time?

She can't remember when she started changing her values for other people just to please them. Has she always been a people pleaser? Is it in her blood? Perfection is. She can't let this fall apart. This has to work, or the world will see the cracks and know something is _terribly wrong inside the house she wishes was made of glass…_

…

He says he loves her. His eyes narrow when she doesn't say anything.

"Well, don't you love me?"

Her autopilot sputters to life, "Yes," she says, planting a kiss on his lips, "Yes. I love you."

Quinn prides herself in being fairly intelligent, but she doesn't know much about love. Even so, she doesn't think telling someone you love them is supposed to make you want to cry.

_But maybe that means he needs her as much as she needs him, and that makes everything okay, even the parts that the fairytales don't see._

…

She packs up her things and moves in with him after four months of relationship and three months of bruises. It'll save money. His apartment is nicer than hers. This is what couples do.

Her room is purple, his favorite color on her. It's smaller than his, with a smaller bed and a bathroom down the hall. He has the master suite, with the queen sized bed and the private bathroom with the claw foot tub.

She sees his pieces falling into place. Instead of complaining, she sets her suitcase down and says she loves it.

Later that night she sits in the bathroom with an icepack against her arm, and feels she will grow very accustomed to this spot. _Sometimes, her intuition frightens her._

…

She assumes, because he is a nice Christian boy, he won't force her into anything she isn't ready for or doesn't want. Namely sex. Been there, done that. Quinn doesn't want to deal with pregnancy again any time soon.

But assuming makes an _ass out of you and me _(too bad no one ever taught her that spelling trick). She is wrong.

She doesn't mind going too far. It's the way he goes about it that gets her. They'll be kissing and he tries to unbutton her pants but she says no, and he keeps trying anyway. Not only is it rude and bordering on rape, it's disrespectful and makes her downright angry. She complains, he nothing short of whines, and the limit gets pushed farther and farther until she doesn't know what to do anymore.

"No" isn't enough. She doesn't know how to make "no" enough, not if he won't listen. Especially since if she said _no_ enough, he'd probably just hit her anyway. She doesn't want him to hit her (moreover, she doesn't want to feel like he has a _reason _to hit her; that issue is already confusing enough).

Of course, when he finds out she's already had a baby, everything goes downhill.

Honestly, she's surprised it never slipped out while her mother was bragging about her, though getting pregnant at sixteen isn't exactly an achievement. Still, she thought he would've found out sooner. It seems like everyone knows; even though it's been a few years (_five years to be exact, but who's counting?_), the feeling never goes away.

"_What does it matter? You're not a virgin. You've had a baby!"_

"_Exactly. I don't want to get pregnant again."_

"_Well do you love me?"_

"_I… of course I do."_

"_Then don't be such a fucking tease!"_

Maybe he has a point. Is she being a tease? Does saying no even though she's done it before make her awful? Are the people who try drugs and then never do them again bad because they didn't "follow through?"

Well no, but that's different. That isn't… this.

Maybe he's right. It's not like she knows what she's talking about in any other situation, anyway. She's stupid. Stupid, worthless, and now a tease.

Eventually he gets her out of her skirt and she doesn't complain. She doesn't say anything, not even when it's over and she feels dirtier than she did her first time. She doesn't mention the fact that she hated it, or that the thought of him touching her like that again makes her skin crawl.

No. She makes him breakfast and she tells him she loves him without a second thought. He kisses her before he leaves. Once the door closes she stands in the shower for two hours, watching as the boiling water splashes across the black marks on her wrists.

He's rough, and he only gets rougher.

Michael likes to play "games," making her feel like some kind of cheap hooker. He's always been demanding and sex is no different. His favorite game is to tie her up, arms up above her head with her wrists tied to the headboard. She doesn't like it. He doesn't care.

She never imagined her life being like this. But what else is there to do? This is what she's supposed to do - keep him happy. If he isn't happy, he's…

He's never happy. Quinn's still trying to figure that part out.

…

He asks her marry him.

He asks her to marry him, at a party.

He asks her to marry him, at a party, in front of everyone. _In front of his family and her family and what is she supposed to say?_

How can she say no? _How can she say yes_? She can't leave him. This is what they want. They want her to settle down with a nice man and _be happy_. Maybe a few numbers are missing from the equation, but she'll make it work.

Michael slips the ring on her finger. It feels heavier than any weight she's ever carried.

Her parents are elated. Her mother cries and hugs her while her father welcomes Michael to the family. They and the in-laws plan a celebration dinner for the next night.

She has to cancel last minute. Michael goes without her, saying she came down with a sudden bug and didn't feel well enough to come out.

While they eat, she's sitting at home nursing a swollen black eye. Until it heals, she takes all of the mirrors off the walls.

…

The first time she visits the hospital is because of a fractured arm. He drives her, tapping his fingers to the beat of the radio. In the emergency room, she explains how she tripped and fell while tending to the garden. He laughs at how clumsy she is, asking if it hurts and helping her buckling her seatbelt with the new sling in the way.

She doesn't have a garden.

The second time, it's for a broken nose. She drives herself and wears sunglasses everywhere until the bruises around her eyes heal. The nurses ask if she's accident prone. She tells them she ran into a door (he punched her in the face).

The third time, Quinn walks in with a cut on her hand that won't heal. She gets nine stitches, a shot of antibiotics, and a pamphlet about domestic violence that the nurse forces into her hand. She fakes annoyance at the accusation. Really, she can't believe it's true. This isn't _abuse. _It's… she isn't quite sure, but it's not that. It can't be. She tells them she just cut her hand while cooking dinner (he pushed her while she was cooking dinner and she landed on the knife). The nurse frowns and spews information about toll free hotlines.

She stops going to the hospital after that. Her medical information may be limited, but she'll take care of herself. Emergency room bills are too expensive anyway.

…

The day she gives up isn't memorable. It's just another day. That's the pathetic part of it, because it isn't one single moment. It's just… there. Gone.

Surrender isn't even painful. She's too tired to care.

He can hit her because she deserves it.

He can call her names because she deserves it.

He can take her to bed without her permission because she _deserves it_.

She finally forgets her old life and accepts her punishment. Maybe if she stops struggling, it won't hurt so badly.

It still hurts plenty. She just forgets to care.


	2. Chapter 2

_Present_

It's a Thursday. She's grocery shopping.

And her life changes forever (again).

She runs into Noah Puckerman at the store, picking up peanut butter. At one point in time, this would've been welcome. Now, seeing any of her old friends only frightens her. What if they notice something? What if they see that she's different somehow? What if they tell someone? Especially Noah. He's… different. Of course he's different - they had a baby together. She'll never stop caring about him, and he's always been protective. If he ever knew-

She forgets it all and gushes over her fiancé, ignoring the look on his face as she puts frozen strawberries in her basket and tugs on her sleeve.

"Why are you getting those?"

"What?"

"Strawberries. You're allergic, right?"

She's surprised he remembered. Michael doesn't care, "Yes, but Michael likes them."

"Oh. That's considerate of him."

He's saying that like he's jealous. Is he jealous? Does she care? She shouldn't. She's engaged. Stop being such a tramp. Michael will find out and he'll be so angry he'll-

"It's okay. I don't mind."

She doesn't mind much. It's not her decision to make.

She can't help grinning like a child when he says she can call him Puck.

…

Milk. She's looking for milk. Where's the fucking milk? One percent, low fat, the gallon with the light blue cap… It has to be the same brand or he'll flip out again… and her arm hurts. It hurts to lift open the freezer door…

"Quinn? What are you doing here?"

He's standing right in front of her, same as always, and he still takes her breath away and makes her feel like flying. Then she comes back to reality and props the door open with her shoulder, cool air seeping out onto her face.

"I just… I need milk."

"It's almost midnight."

She looks away, sputtering. She's not really used to anyone asking questions, "Well… what are you doing here?"

"I wanted some ice cream."

"Oh," of course. He's single with no commitments. Young and free. People like that can just go out and get ice cream whenever they want. It's normal. She's not normal. Getting milk in the middle of the night with smudged make up isn't normal…

She reaches in for the plastic gallon, hoping he didn't notice the way her sleeve rolled up, revealing a sliver of a bruise. Ow.

"Are you okay?"

Shit.

She pulls down her sleeve, smiling, "I'm fine." _Like why would you ask, my life is perfect filled with money and the perfect fiancé and we'll get married and be rich and happy, and I will be the poster wife who sits at country clubs and drinks expensive wine, and only buys the best cosmetics to cover up the arguments that don't really exist on the outer layer of this perfect world, okay?_

"Are you sure?"

And a part of her really wants to cry, because no one's cared enough to ask. No one asks about her wellbeing anymore. No one ever-

She just smiles. Smiling always works.

"Puck. Don't try to meddle with things you'll never understand."

She turns and walks away with her milk, yanking on her shirt sleeve, paying the cashier without looking at her. She leaves Puck standing there in aisle twelve, look of confusion and despair on his face.

No one is supposed to know. No one has to know. Everything will be fine if she just gets home with the milk…

…

She folded his socks wrong. His socks.

Now she's back against the wall, his hands clasped around her throat, gasping for air.

Of course, it's more than just the socks. It's her. It's everything.

And her mother wants to know why she still hasn't set a date for the wedding.

As her face turns red to a light shade of blue, he throws her to the ground, face colliding with the wall and the hardwood floor.

She doesn't get up until his footsteps have faded and her eyes have stopped watering. She grabs her car keys, and she goes.

It's her first time leaving without permission. It's terrifying and exhilarating, like when she used to sneak out in high school, but really more horrifying than anything else.

Quinn doesn't know why, but she ends up sitting in the grocery store parking lot, staring as Puck takes drags off a cigarette as she preaches to him about the dangers of smoking while he examines the finger marks decorating her throat.

"Nice artwork you got there."

She says thank you like it's a real compliment. It's an automatic response.

"Any chance this handiwork is by your darling fiancé-"

"Don't."

Don't say that. Don't go there. Don't hear that. Don't see that. Don't say a fucking word because that's too hard to deal with. Don't tell me the truth because I can't handle it and you can't handle it, so lets sweep it under the rug and if we pretend it isn't there maybe it will wish itself away.

It shouldn't be all that surprising. Denial was a staple in her family's emotional diet growing up, along with perfection and secrets.

She ignores his prying questions. It's really none of his business.

Before he leaves, he places a scrap of paper with his address in her palm. She sticks it on her dashboard, and when she gets home she places it in the laundry room at the bottom of a box of clothes pins.

The one place he'd never look.

…

The only thought registering in her mind is that her face hurts.

That, and if she left once, she can leave again.

She ends up knocking on his door in the middle of the night. The cut on her face stings and her eye seems to be swelling shut. The look on his face makes her feel immensely guilty.

"I'm going to fucking kill him."

That's a bit drastic.

He cleans her cut and gives her an ice pack. She tells him it's not a big deal and she can't leave. He gets angry. She starts flinching whenever he moves because her body has learned to fear anger. That just makes him sad.

"You're getting angry. Please don't get angry."

"Why? Are you afraid I'm going to hit you?"

She throws down the ice pack and walks away.

It's not that she's angry at him for bringing it up (well, she is, but that's not the point). She's not angry at him for suggesting that Michael hits her, because it's the truth. She's angry because it is the truth, because it always happens and she can't stop it from happening, and she knows Puck would never hit her, and she wishes she could stay here forever, but she can't.

She's wished for a lot of things. Wishes are useless, including wishing she had Puck instead of Michael.

He's better than him. He'll always be better than him, no matter how cocky or stupid he acts. She hopes he never forgets that, that one day he'll make a girl very happy and always treat her right, and when he gets angry he'll think of her face at this moment and he'll stop. She might not be around to remind him. Maybe he'll remember her. She never wanted to be another statistic…

Stop being so morbid.

He wants her to stay. She won't and she can't. Michael's waiting for her.

"Thank you, Puck. You're sweet. But you can't fix this."

She satisfies her inner demons by kissing him on the cheek. She feels like she's cheating, even if she never wanted anything else more. She's never wanted to stay in a single place more than right now.

But she walks away. She has to. If only she could figure out how to leave the right people instead of the wrong ones.

…

She sees him again days later, grocery shopping (of course). She doesn't know what to say to him. It's hard to talk while he's accusing her. He pulls on her arm to prove a point and she curses herself ten times over for crying out. Does it matter if he's right? No. He can't change anything.

He wants her to come over. She can't help wondering what that implies, but she agrees anyway.

When she gets home, she kisses Michael like nothing happened. That night he drinks too many glasses of whiskey and kicks her in the ribs. She spends the night on the living room floor, making a list of what to bring to Puck's.

In the morning Michael leaves for his business trip and she waves goodbye. She packs a bag and puts on a fresh coat of lipstick, ready to face the world.

She shows up at Puck's around three. They talk about old times and joke around. Michael calls three times to check up on her. She answers every one without fail, always complying with his questions and ending with an "I love you," ignoring Puck's face as she hangs up the phone.

"Just don't answer him."

"Do you want me dead?"

He winces, "Don't say that."

"I thought you wanted me to tell the truth."

"I do."

"I never said the truth was pretty."

Later that night, he wants to see her bruises. She shows him. All of them, and as she stands naked in front of him, she doesn't feel ashamed.

They end up in bed, both unclothed, which isn't exactly a stretch considering their history. They did have a baby together. It's the first time she's wanted to be this close to someone in a while; actually want it and not just do it because she has to.

The most notable change is that he holds her gently, and it feels good when he touches her, not awful or dirty. His fingers graze over her skin, delicately sweeping across the sore spots.

The look of pain on his face as he sees her damaged body makes her feel guilty. It's a different kind of guilt, but guilt all the same.

She won't think about what she's doing, what this means, until the morning, and by then it'll be too late.

If Michael ever finds out, he'll kill both of you. Worse, he'll kill him and leave you-

For the first time, she's content to fall asleep in someone's arms. In the middle of the night, she swears she hears him crying (over what, she isn't sure), but she doesn't say anything. They both have secrets they'd rather keep.

…

She'd give him her phone number, but Michael checks the phone records, so she gives him her address instead, just in case. Meanwhile, she visits him more often than she probably should, usually when Michael isn't home. When he is there, he smells like vanilla perfume. She doesn't wear vanilla, but she doesn't say anything because she doesn't care.

An eye for an eye, right?

Yet she still can't leave him. She still feels a pull to him, though she doesn't know why. Puck says that's what happens in abusive relationships. The abuser makes the victim feel like they're worthless without them. She just tells him to shut up and unbuttons his jeans. He doesn't protest.

It's a strange balance, between hate and love and secrets. Her life is one giant mask, and within that mask she has even more for different occasions. She can't give up one or the other. She settles for doing nothing, screwing Michael when he's there and screwing Puck when he isn't.

She likes having sex with Puck much more than with Michael, but that could only be because he doesn't tie her up or force her to give him head.

The rope burns on her wrists are getting harder to hide.

…

She packs up a duffel bag with necessities (clothes, her cross necklace, family pictures) and hides it in the laundry room.

Just in case.

…

Once upon a time there is a girl named Quinn. She has two choices.

Michael gives her everything a girl deserves, everything a girl wants. The posh life, full of diamonds and giant, soft couches, and maids around every corner. He could buy her a mansion in a nice part of some rich town, with a lifetime membership to the country club and enough money to pay all the bills and send all their children to any school they could want.

Puck gives her what he can, but it isn't enough. The hard life, full of knock off jewelry from the pawn shop and old rocking chairs, and enough housework to bury her. He could buy them a small house, or maybe a larger apartment, in an okay part of town, with maybe enough money for a membership to the Y and struggling to pay the bills and all their children would need scholarships to even go to a state college.

Michael is smooth, charming, and sweet, with a hidden core.

Puck is just as smooth and charming, with a badass side that bites but it's just a cover up, with a hidden core.

Underneath, Michael is hotheaded. He gets angry easily. So he hits her, and goes outside to smoke a cigarette while she cleans up the mess.

Underneath, Puck is hotheaded. He gets angry easily. So he goes outside and hits the trashcans or the siding of the house, and comes back in and apologizes. There is nothing for her to clean up.

Michael doesn't love her. He loves the idea of a pretty, submissive trophy wife. He wants to be in control of everything and everyone, and will stop at nothing to achieve that. He doesn't understand that abuse is not love.

Puck loves her. He loves everything about her, and he loves that she is more than pretty and submissive, that she is not just any old girl who fits into the mold. He'd probably like to be in control of a lot of things, but only to stop her from getting hurt, and he understands that that's not how life works. He understands that abuse is not love.

Once upon a time, there is a girl named Quinn Fabray. She has two choices. One clearly outmatches the other. But she doesn't know what to choose because despite what she's learned, she still doesn't know how to run away.

It will take some love and some patience and some fear, and maybe a little bit of fate.

…

He wants her to leave. She cries and says she can't. He bites back his tears as he bandages up her wrists, raw and bleeding.

She wants to be strong for him when she only feels powerless. He doesn't know what to do, except take care of her when she lets him.

She promises to find him when it gets too bad. He wishes that wasn't the only way out. "Too bad" could end up on the six o'clock news…

She says it won't and kisses him before she leaves again. He's never been much of a praying person, but each day he prays he'll see her face one more time.

…

It's the broken vase that does it.

Well maybe not. She didn't particularly like the vase. It's just what it represents.

In hindsight, she can't remember how the argument started. It never really matters how they start (something she did, something stupid, because she's an idiot), it's how they end.

This fight is ending on the floor, face battered, back bleeding again, forearms full of glass. She listens to his footsteps pound away upstairs, wondering if she should just lie here.

It's quiet. She sits up, watching the blood soak into the carpet. The marble blue glass from the vase is splattered with red. Well that's going to be a bitch to clean up. She'll probably need bleach-

But then a thought strikes her. You don't have to clean it up. He hurt you. Why not just get up and walk away?

It's difficult to fight the panic settling in as she pulls the biggest shards of glass from her arms, placing them on the carpet side by side, trying to ignore the tingling feeling in her cuts. Then she stands up, slowly, stumbling into the laundry room to pick up her bag she'd stashed weeks ago. She slings it over her shoulder, trying to ignore her aching back, and grabs a few towels to wrap around her arms. She presses one against her bleeding lip.

Then Quinn picks up the car keys, the only sound the jingle of metal colliding. She gets in the car, and she drives.

If Michael hears her, he doesn't stop her. He probably thinks she won't get very far.

Hopefully, he's wrong.

She tries to ignore the look of shock on Puck's face when he opens the door. It'll only make her feel worse.

She drops her bag in the middle of his kitchen and stands still as he reaches down to hug her.

"Careful. You'll get blood on your clothes."

There are something like tears falling into her hair, but by the time he pulls away they're gone.

"I don't care."

She follows him into the bathroom like many times before and sits down on the edge of the tub. He cleans her wounds. She idly muses that he should become a nurse, if he didn't see a nurse as being a pansy job for a man. He can be so sexist sometimes.

She refuses to go to the hospital. They ask too many questions. He tells her she could be seriously hurt with the same sad look in his eyes.

"I just don't want to see him hurt you anymore."

All she can think is that she doesn't want him to look so broken every time she walks through the door.

She doesn't want to be hurt either. But how does she leave? How can she leave everything behind? Where can she go? What will her parents say? What if Michael just finds her again? What if she doesn't deserve anything better?

"I know."

"You're not going back there."

He can't decide that.

But she can.

Why does that have to be so difficult? She can stay here, like she's been trying to do for all these months. Screw the rest of the world.

Survival instincts should always overpower fear. Maybe that's what makes it so easy.

"Okay."

Or maybe it's the way his face lights up when she agrees.

"Really? You're serious this time?"

She nods timidly, "But you have to… help me, you know. I can't just… I mean, if he finds out, or if-"

"I'll never let him touch you again, Quinn, I swear."

She doesn't know if he's any good at keeping promises. But anything has to be better than going back home.

…

Two days later, she tells him she wants to leave. Really leave, as in go somewhere else, far away, with him. He starts loading up the truck and drops a notice in his landlord's box without a second thought.

As he turns the key in the ignition, she says she needs to go back home to get something. Against his better judgment, he listens.

Michael's car is in the driveway. She politely asks Puck to stay outside. She needs to do this alone. He grips the steering wheel with his fists and nods without saying a word.

Inside, Michael's sitting on the couch reading the paper, standing up to greet her. He doesn't even register the bandages on her arms or the scab on her lip.

"Where have you been?"

"Nowhere."

"You went somewhere, Quinn," he says with a smile like he means it, "I hope you're feeling better."

"I'm… fine."

Why does she have to please him? What makes her unable to face the fact that he's the one who made her hurt and it's never going to change?

She goes upstairs to grab the things she wanted. He doesn't follow. Her photos, some more clothes, and the money she stashed go into the bag. She leaves her cell phone on the dresser. He has all her credit cards, so that's not a problem, and Puck said they'd get a different car once they got out of state in case he tried to track the license plate.

It'd be easier if she went to the police. Maybe she will. But if her own parents probably wouldn't believe her, how can she tell a stranger about it?

She enters the living room, stopping on the side closest to the door and turning around to face him.

"Actually, Michael, we need to talk."

"What?"

She clenches her fists to stop her hands from shaking, "I'm leaving."

"Where are you going?" he asks, playing dumb, eying the bag on her shoulder.

"I'm moving in with a friend."

"A male friend?"

"Does it really matter? I'd rather be with a friend than go to the women's shelter."

"It certainly does matter. You don't need to go anywhere!"

"I can't stay here anymore."

"Why not?"

"You hurt me. I don't… deserve that."

"Oh, I don't hurt you, Quinn. We get in to fights sometimes. It's not a big deal. I still love you."

The look on his face is enough to make her almost believe it, but she's been practicing this encounter for the past two days. She knows she can't listen to him anymore.

"No, you don't. If you loved me, you wouldn't hit me or call me names force me to have sex with you when you knew I wanted to wait."

"You think you can just abandon me and leave with your boyfriend out there?"

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Then who is he?"

"He's an old friend."

"He's the scumbag who got you pregnant, isn't he? I've seen pictures. You don't need someone like that. I can-"

"He loves me more than you ever will. He always has."

"So you've been cheating on me? You've been cheating on me all this time?"

"Does it count if you were cheating too?"

"I guess it's in your nature. After all, I can't expect a slut like you to keep to yourself."

"I'm not a slut," she says quietly, growing smaller as he feeds off her fear and grows stronger.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not a slut."

"Sure, tell that to mommy and daddy. At least I know what I two faced whore you really are."

"I'm not…"

"Why don't I just tell everyone about our secrets, huh? Why don't I go take out an ad in the paper, see how your family feels when they find out you let me go because you wanted to sleep around."

"Please, don't… I'm sorry, Michael, I didn't-"

"Face it, Quinn, you need me. A guy like that can't deal with these emotional outbursts from you. He can't deal with you cheating on him. I'm willing to forgive you. Just put down your bag, and-"

"No. I'm leaving."

"Quinn-"

"No. I won't let you keep doing this to me. Puck is a better man than you, and he-"

The blow across her face certainly isn't the hardest she's ever received, but it carries the most weight of all.

"Don't insult me."

"This is why I'm leaving," she spits, calmly picking up her bag and backing up. His attitude changes like lightning.

"I didn't mean it, Quinnie. You can't just walk away. What about our lives together? You can't do this without me."

"I'm done with you, Michael. You can't hurt me anymore."

She climbs into the truck and has to hold Puck down when he sees her reddened face.

"Please. Let's just go."

She watches the house disappear in the side view mirror. Ideally, she'll never see the likes of it again.


	3. Chapter 3

_Future_

They move across the country. He gets a job as a construction worker and she signs up to be a substitute teacher until they find something more permanent.

It's different and yet normal. Normal to her is strange, and that should be worrisome. She keeps waiting for the moment it all changes, but nothing happens.

She's afraid to feel happy because what if one day it ends? It'll break her heart. She just got used to blocking herself off. Opening up seems like too much effort.

Puck notices. Of course he does. He notices it in the way she walks, the way she won't talk about anything, the way she locks herself in the bathroom when she starts to cry. It makes him angry and she hates that.

Why does denial have to be so dangerous?

…

About two months into their new life, she comes down with the flu and spends a week lying on the bathroom floor.

This wouldn't faze her, except she's missed her period. Two pink lines only confirm what she feared.

She walks into the kitchen on a Sunday morning, sunlight streaming through the window, sits down, and just says it.

_I'm pregnant._

He doesn't say anything. She isn't sure exactly what he can say.

They used protection most of the time. Michael never did. The odds are stacked against them.

She should've been thinking about this. She should've never used protection with Puck in the first place, and then when she got pregnant and had to marry Michael (or run away), there would've been a greater chance it wasn't his and she could live her life knowing at least she defied him in some way…

No, that's stupid. It could still be Puck's just as easily as it couldn't. They don't have a great track record when it comes to birth control, anyway.

Still.

"What if it isn't yours?"

He reaches over and takes her hand.

"Doesn't matter. I love both of you anyway."

This feeling of wholeness inside her takes some getting used to. Funny how it never should've left in the first place.

…

It's stupid, but she wants him to hit her.

She can't explain why. It just happens. They're arguing and she just yells it at him. After keeping it in since she ran away, it burst forth in a mangled scream.

"_Just do it. Hit me._"

He won't and for some reason, that makes her even angrier. It's what she wants. _Why can't he just do it? _

He looks frightened by her. Maybe he should be. She'd probably be pretty shaken up herself if she was in the right frame of mind.

"I'm not going to hit you."

"Why not?"

"Because I love you."

_I don't want him to love me. I don't want…_

_I don't want to want._

Wanting implies that she's human and being human means she's weak.

This isn't supposed to be so hard.

"I hate you."

"Why?"

Well that's a stupid question. _How the hell is she supposed to know why?_ She doesn't _know_ anything.

"Because… you won't do what I want."

"I'd do anything for you. Except hurt you."

He loves her so much it makes her want to burn. How can anyone love her that much? How does someone care that much about another person without something getting in the way? (_She used to know the answer to that…_)

She gives up after that. But she still doesn't let him see her cry.

…

"You're not dealing with it."

She flinches when he pops up behind her in the kitchen. Of course, he doesn't miss it, though sometimes she wishes he would. It only makes him worry.

"Yes I am."

"Then how come you flip out every time I move?"

She's not supposed to have to talk about this. They're supposed to be a happy little family with a white picket fence. After all, the only things she has to be afraid of are her memories, of _him_ finding her, of him showing up with a knife and going _Psycho _on their house.

She doesn't tell him about the nightmares keeping her awake. The ones where the baby dies or the baby lives and comes out looking just like him, or he shows up and takes the baby away, or he kills the baby, or he kills Puck.

She doesn't have nightmares about him trying to kill h_er_. She's used to that. It was a reality. You only have nightmares about what _could be. Not what will be or would have been, but that's too morbid to really think about._

"It's just hard. You can't expect me to be all better just because he's gone."

"I don't. I just want you to talk about it."

She keeps chopping vegetables for dinner. She's lucky she hasn't cut off her thumb yet. _Lucky no one's done it for her, like…_

"I don't want to talk about it."

He can't know how weak she is.

"Will you at least talk to someone?"

"We don't have money for therapy." Not that she'd go.

"We can make it work."

"I don't… I'll be fine, okay?"

He slowly takes the knife out of her hand, where she's been slicing the green peppers into microscopic pieces. She looks up to face him, his eyes boring back at her. Worried. Maybe a little scared.

"Do you call this fine? Right now?"

"I don't know."

_I don't know what normal is anymore._

…

They fight a week later and she throws silverware at his head, walking out because she can. She manages to waddle a few blocks before he catches up with her and makes her come home. He's afraid she's going to go into labor in the middle of the road and drop the baby, even though they've been over this before. That's not how it works.

He's still angry because she won't talk to him and she's angry because he wants her to talk.

How can she tell him how she feels? What happened? It'll break his heart. It certainly broke hers.

But her life will never really reroute if she keeps it all inside, and she's slowly starting to realize that.

When they get home, she pulls a fork out of the wall (he's lucky she has bad aim) and places it in his hand like some sort of truce.

"You want to know what happened?"

He doesn't say anything. He reaches for her hand, tangling their fingers together. They sit. She wishes her hands would stop shaking.

Talking about this means there's no going back. He'll know everything. He saw the bruises, but he never saw how they were placed there. He doesn't know what went on inside her head, how it felt… how she could've ever thought that's what love meant and how that's so hard to get past now that it's stuck there in her brain.

She takes a deep breath, other hand resting on her swollen belly, "I started living for other people instead of myself."

"Why'd you stay with him?"

"He made me feel wanted. Needed."

"I need you."

"I know."

And she tells him and they cry a little bit, which upsets her because she hates crying in front of people, but maybe that's part of the problem. Maybe it's part of the wall she needs to tear down.

…

She doesn't tell him she's going to do it. Doesn't tell anyone. The idea sort of just comes to her. She's out shopping and suddenly she's in her car, pulling into the police station and walking up to the front desk saying, "I'd like to press charges against my ex-fiancé."

The secretary shuffles her papers, "What kind of charges, Ma'am?"

"Domestic violence."

The words are bitter on her tongue.

She's tied up at the police station all day and Puck calls in a frenzy wondering where she is. They finally get out around dinnertime and she doesn't realize what she's done until the waitress asks her if she'd like any dressing for her salad and she can't answer without choking up.

Puck says everything will be fine. Of course everything will be fine.

She's going to have to face him again. Will it ever end? What if he's proven innocent? What then? What if he manages to get her alone?

Michael was never one to give up easily. She has no doubt that once he receives the papers, he'll want her back. He'll want to punish her. He'll want to…

She rests her hands on her pregnant belly, praying for fate or God to keep them all safe.

…

It's November. They lay on a grassy knoll after a night at the local carnival, sucking on ring pops they got out of a vending machine. Puck gave her the watermelon flavored one, even though he doesn't like grape very much, and they wear them on their ring fingers.

"Do you think we should get married?" he asks quietly, hand resting on her pregnant stomach.

She smiles brightly, teeth turning a light pink, "I thought you'd never ask."

They knock their candy together, laughing like children.

Quinn finds this to be a large improvement compared to the band that once sat on her finger. All engagement rings should be edible.

He promises they can go out to tomorrow and buy her a real ring.

She says he should just buy her some more ring pops.

…

Their lawyer approaches them in the weeks up to the hearing, thick manila folders resting in his hands.

"We need Noah to take a paternity test."

"Why?"

"If Michael's the father, it'll be evidence against him."

Evidence is all that matters. What about her sanity?

"But… I don't want to know."

"I won't tell you the results if you don't want to hear them. They'll only be shared with the jury."

She nods, fingers curled with Puck's as she drums her fingernails against her knee.

…

They're called to court just before Christmas. She wears the classiest pregnancy top and skirt she can find with her golden cross and black ballet flats. Puck isn't allowed to sit with her and her lawyer, which makes her a bit queasier than she already is. The baby's about to pop any minute now, although she's expected to hold out at least another three weeks, and her feet are swollen. She checks her mascara for the twentieth time as Michael enters the room with his attorney, neat as a pin.

He stares at her over her compact and she snaps it shut, glaring back. No matter how much he once frightened her, this is a fight she's determined to win.

He's brought up to the witness stand and her defense prosecutes him. He denies ever touching her, says she hurt him too. They bring up the hospital records and the scars on her body, and he starts to sweat underneath his collar.

Of course, his money means a good lawyer, and his lawyer chews her out hard. He says she was petty and delusional. Michael did the best he could, but well, there's only so much you can do with a deranged girl. She'd never stop harming herself – throwing herself down the stairs, slicing herself up, trying to choke herself, you name it. Miss Fabray was only Mr. Eaton's charity case. He practically saved her life.

She'd like to strangle both of them, but takes deep breaths like her lawyer coached her and tries to answer all of their questions honestly.

They say the jury will receive evidence of the paternity of the child, but it will not be revealed to the public. For once, Michael being the father will actually be a good thing – it'll prove his abuse. Of course, he sees it differently and claims it's only her way to pin someone else's child on him. _You do know, after all, that she was pregnant at sixteen? Wouldn't surprise me if she had three babies before she met me! Girls like that never change._

She sips water from a plastic cup in the hallway while the jury debates and Puck holds her hand.

"You did good."

"Hopefully good enough."

"You were great, really. I would've punched that lawyer of his in the face if I were you."

She laughs a little, but it dies away once she sees Michael step out of the courtroom.

"Hello Quinn."

She stares at her shoes, "You're not supposed to talk to me."

"Well, what they don't know won't hurt them."

"Get lost," Puck spits, tightening his grip on her hand.

"So you're the famous other man," Michael smiles, charming as ever, "I don't believe we've formally met. I'd say it's my pleasure, but I fear it's quite the opposite."

"You should leave, Michael," she says quietly, finally looking up at him, "I don't want to see you."

"Maybe you should've thought of that before you charged me with physical and sexual domestic abuse, Quinnie. Do you know you got me arrested in front of the entire neighborhood? Quite the scandal. Your parents still don't believe it, though I told them you abandoned me for _this _trash, and now you're pregnant? When they hear this, they'll faint dead away-"

"Leave. Now."

He chuckles as he walks away, "Of course, sweetheart. Send me a card when the baby arrives?"

"He's just… messing with us," she says once he's gone, reaching up to cup Puck's cheek, "It's what he does. We'll be fine."

"I know. I'm… proud of you. For being so brave."

She grins, kissing him on the nose, "I learned from the best."

…

Despite his confidence, Michael is found guilty. He's sentenced to eight years in prison, five years with good behavior, and a restraining order.

She sits on the courthouse steps with her skirt billowing around her knees and cries over him for the last time.

…

The baby is born in January, only a few weeks after the court hearing. It's in the middle of a snowstorm and Puck has to drive at a snail's pace to get to the hospital safely. She clutches his hand and he winces as he turns into the parking lot.

Giving birth was fairly uneventful. It hurt just as much as the second time, but emotionally it was a bit better because she knew at the end of the day she wouldn't be saying goodbye.

She names him Aiden. She doesn't see how she could ever stop loving him, no matter who he belongs to.

Puck holds him and she can't help smiling. Even if he really isn't his, he belongs to him too.

They're going to be a family, and her child will never see the monsters behind better picket fences. Not if she has anything to say about it.

…

She stands at the entrance to the chapel, shaking with fear underneath her dress. The wedding is small – only a few family and friends. Her sister Jackie is her maid of honor.

They don't invite their parents – they're angry that Quinn ran away, angry that she never talked to them, angry that they couldn't see what was happening. They want her to Face It like a Proud Fabray. There is no pride in running away from your problems.

Good thing she won't be a Fabray for much longer.

She walks down the aisle alone and she gives herself away, but that's fine. After struggling with control issues, she doesn't see why it should be her father's job to give her to anyone.

Puck's mother holds Aiden in the front row while they exchange vows. She can't help wondering how different it would be if she was still wearing Michael's ring, if their wedding had happened, if she had raised Aiden in that home. It would be a death sentence. She would live her life broken.

She looks at Puck, at her child, and knows this is a better place.

At the reception they skip the father daughter dance and give everyone ring pops as gifts. They honeymoon at a beach house a few hours away for a week and return to their lives.

It really isn't any different. They already acted like they were married, anyway. Puck says it makes him feel like he can protect her better now - they belong to each other, legally as well as in every other way. She can see his point. It's nice to wake up in the morning and know he isn't going anywhere.

It's nice to know they're finally real after all these years and no one can hurt them anymore. No one will ever hurt them again.

…

Aiden's first word is "dada." She's a little jealous. Relieved. Mostly, she's happy he'll grow up and never know the difference.

None of them will ever know the difference. But his eyes are blue, and neither of their eyes are, and Puck says it's probably just a recessive gene or something _but what does he know because he didn't even pass biology_.

It hurts her heart. She doesn't want to be marked by him. She doesn't want her child to be marked by him. She doesn't want him to grow up knowing half of him is awful.

She still doesn't really know who he belongs to. But at least he's _hers_. She can find comfort in that.

Their lives will change and grow but she has love now, and that love will stay by her and she will not let herself be remembered as a victim or a coward or a statistic.

She is a survivor. She's alive and finally happy, and no one can ever take that away.

* * *

_Finished!_

_Weirdly enough: I wrote the thing with the ring pops way before Puck gave one to Lauren. Go figure. Also, I didn't do any research for the court scene, so bear with me on that one._

_Hoped you liked it! Just to give you a heads up, if you enjoyed this, I'm writing an alternate ending of what I think would've happened if Quinn had ended up staying with Michael (it'll be a chapter after this one). Review if you have the time!_


	4. Chapter 4

_An alternate ending of sorts to _fate wrapped in paper or plastic _and/or _snapshots in reality. _What if Quinn had stayed? What if she couldn't leave?_

_All I can say is, my mind goes strange places when I'm trying to fall asleep. I just wish it would give this plot bunny a rest… nevertheless, enjoy!_

She stands behind the big oak doors, staring at the rafters, waiting for a sign.

_Please Lord, forgive me for my sins. Save me from this evil-_

Her father takes her arm. She clutches the bouquet against her four thousand dollar gown.

"Ready?"

The music plays. She takes a breath and dives in, breathing in and out deep enough to fight back the tears.

He's waiting at the end of the aisle. He takes her hands. She looks at him and she's in love. Really, she is.

But there are still monsters underneath the bed, behind the tinted glass, monsters she'd never wish on anyone.

It's better then, to keep them all to herself. To suffer. To weep in silence.

He kisses the bride. Her wedding band is a handcuff around her finger, tied to him. _I now pronounce you husband and wife._

They ride off into the sunset like all good fairytales do, and she sees the man with a crumpled tie watching from the sidewalk, eyes boring into her.

She waves. He nods, frowns, turns away. She swallows, says no thank you to the wine, and climbs into the limo, hands clenched into fists.

…

She and Michael are _very happy_. They're always happy. They're the perfect couple, the epitome of rich, settled, and wonderful. No one would bat an eye at them. Of course not. They're simply perfect, the envy of the town, the upper end with all the fancy houses with expensive drapery to pull down at precise moments.

Everyone pulls back their curtains, peeks out their windows. The curtains are drawn, and they pretend they can't hear the screams.

She opens the door, gets the mail, pats her stomach, chats with the neighbors. _Oh yes, we're expecting soon. I'd like a girl you know, but Michael says he needs a boy to watch baseball with. We're so excited, of course. Couldn't be lovelier._

She closes the door, puts the mail on the table, clutches her stomach and wonders if the baby will die before he's born.

Of course, the baby isn't _his_, and she sees all those times she retreated to a former flame's apartment, looking for something like true love, like safety, like a real fairytale without the secret panels and trap doors.

Once upon a time, Noah Puckerman was a mistake. Somehow he showed up again, chapters later, but this time maybe he wasn't a mishap.

He was a golden opportunity. She refused to take it. She banished him when he asked for her love, asked him to leave her alone and tied her own bandages. He left obediently, saddened and jaded, wondering where she'd go without someone to help her lick her wounds.

She did just fine before he popped back up again. She'll do fine now. She doesn't need a protector.

She should call him. Tell him _she's pregnant_. He's a father. Again.

The baby could be Michael's. Could be, but isn't. She can feel it.

Michael can't know. He'll kill both of them.

…

Her stomach swells. Her husband doesn't make any attempt to control his hands. She locks the bathroom door and holds a washcloth against her split lip, caking on the foundation to lessen the bruise.

No one asks because they don't want to believe it. She smiles because it can't be true.

You forgive people you love for their mistakes. She'd be a terrible wife if she asked him to stop hitting her.

She names the baby Aiden, and goes sick with worry every time she places him in Michael's hands. But no, he isn't a child abuser. _Not yet, anyway._

She stays home, throwing everything she has into taking care of her child. Michael continues working and living like nothing's changed, just another mouth to feed, another cry to silence. In the middle of the night she sleeps in Aiden's room with the door locked, staring at the smiling giraffe on the wall, counting each and every spot, waiting for the sun to rise.

It comes like always, but nothing else changes. Aiden accidently smacks the bruises on her arms while he's fussing and she cries. Michael tells her to shut up as he pours another glass of whiskey, eyes fixed on the game flashing across the television.

She bites her lip and feeds the baby, kicking the counter with her bare feet.

…

Something comes over her when he's gone and she picks up the phone.

"I want you to meet someone."

He shows up, looking around at her well-to-do home, whistling lowly.

"You made out, sweetheart. This good enough to let him beat you?"

"Shut up."

She leads him up the grand staircase, taking him into the baby's room where Aiden sits gurgling, playing with his toys.

"This is Aiden. Your son."

He stands there, numb, as she picks Aiden up and places him in his arms.

And for the first time in her life, she watches Noah Puckerman cry.

…

"How do you know for sure?"

"I don't."

"You didn't take a test?"

"I just… know. He's yours."

He ponders this, staring at the sleeping baby on his chest.

"Then let's leave."

"You know I can't."

"You can."

She doesn't answer him, only takes the child back and places him in his crib.

"Michael will be back soon. You should go."

…

She lands on the floor with a dull thud, the picture frames quaking on the walls.

Michael kicks her in the stomach again. She coughs, sputtering, biting her tongue.

He stomps away, taking another drink.

Aiden cries.

…

He keeps an eye on her from afar, visiting now and then.

They tell Aiden that he's his uncle, but it's a secret. Don't tell Daddy. Daddy doesn't want to know.

Somehow, it works out. Somehow, no one ever knows, but he can't stand watching her body be marred with scars and have no say about it. _About anything_-

…

Four years go by and she's on the local news.

She's smiling, hair tucked behind her ear, telling the interviewer about how _safe she feels now, the woman's shelter is a wonderful place, they'll learn to live on their own soon enough._

An address flashes across the screen, a hotline, an exposé on the horrors of domestic violence and what woman's shelters do to help.

He shuts off the TV, gets into his car, and drives.

She looks up from where she's folding laundry as a staff member tells her she has a visitor. It seems to take ages to reach the front desk and she's crawling out of her skin. _It could be her parents, it could be her sister – they're not supposed to know…_

It's Puck.

Falling into someone's arms never felt so good.

"You left."

She nods into his chest.

"I'm proud of you."

She might just be too proud to stay away.

They find Aiden in the play area, climbing up the slide with the other children. He lights up when he sees them.

"Uncle Puck!"

He twirls him around, holding him at his hip as Aiden jabbers on about his friends and all the pictures he drew for him while he was gone, leaving again to tell the other kids that his uncle his here. His uncle's nicer than Daddy.

"All these kids and their mothers… they all live here?"

She nods, staring off at the battered toy box and rocking horse, "All of us."

"Saw you on TV."

She grins, "Did I look nice?"

"Of course. Beautiful as always."

"You don't have to say that."

"Yes. I do."

She grabs his hand, unsure, watching Aiden laugh as he plays pass with another child.

"We're going back home soon."

"I wish you wouldn't."

"I have to go."

"You don't. You don't need him. You never _needed _him."

She frowns and turns towards him, squeezes his hand.

"I'm sorry."

…

She's too proud to stay away for more than two months. Proud little girls face their problems head on. Fabrays never back down. Power through the pain. Deal with it.

She loves him too much, whatever the hell love is, to stay away.

They had packed up one afternoon. She filled a single suitcase with their clothes and any cash she could find. Aiden asked why he couldn't bring all his toys as she strapped him into his car seat, driving fifteen minutes to the shelter.

It's close enough for him to find her but he doesn't care enough to try. They live there, but it's uncomfortable. She worries about her parents calling, looking for her. She hates therapy, hates using quarters to do her laundry, hates Aiden always asking her why they only have one small room now, one bed.

It comes to an end and everyone waves goodbye as she packs up. They're worried. She smiles. They'll be fine. They're always fine.

Michael takes them back, asking few questions, promising she'll never have to live like that again, he'll take care of her. Life eventually falls back into it's old pattern. Her wrist throbs as she straightens Aiden's little tie and they drive out to Michael's office party at the country club, sipping wine underneath white pleated tents.

Her friend Sarah approaches her in the middle of someone's speech, eyebrows knitted together, "Quinn, we have a problem."

She leads her over to where the kids are playing underneath the food table. Josh is crying, sniffling next to his mother while Aiden stands a few feet away, kicking at the grass with his shoe.

"Aiden hit Josh."

"Aiden!" she says sternly, grabbing his shoulders, "We never, _ever _hit someone! Did you apologize?"

"Sorry, Josh…"

"I'm so sorry, Suzanne…" she says, blushing, "I don't know what's wrong with him."

"Oh, it's fine, Quinn. Kids will be kids. Aiden has quite an arm on him…"

"But mommy!" Aiden protests, pulling at her skirt, "Daddy hits you all the time!"

She feels time freeze as she swallows hard, smiling wide. The other mothers are looking at her, eyebrows raised. Josh stops crying and crawls back under the tablecloth. She clenches her teeth, patting Aiden on the back, air of sympathy in her voice, "Oh honey, don't tell stories like that!"

She gently pushes him away as he goes back to play with the other children, a little confused. Sarah follows her as she walks towards the flower garden, losing herself among the daises.

"Quinn! Quinn, slow down!"

"_What_, Sarah?"

"What was Aiden talking about back there?"

"Nothing. He's four, he likes to make up stories. Kids do that."

"But… _why _would he say something like that?"

"I don't know. He knew he was in trouble, to lessen the blow, maybe? It's really not a big deal."

Sarah brushes against the flowers as she approaches Quinn slowly, "It _is _a big deal if Michael hurts you."

"He doesn't. I promise."

"You'd tell me if things weren't okay, right?"

She plucks the petals off a flower she doesn't know the name of, watching them flutter to the ground.

"Of course."

…

Her mother comes up to her after she leaves the garden. Michael invited her parents, though she doesn't know why. He likes them. Likes being on their good side…

"I heard what happened with Aiden."

She stares straight ahead.

"Is everything alright, Quinnie?"

She locks her jaw, "It's fine, mom. Perfect."

"I just know that ever since you met him, you've been… distant."

She doesn't want to talk to her mother about this. Her mother, of all people. Doesn't she realize she's being a hypocrite?

"I'm just busy. Michael and I are fine. Aiden's fine."

_We're all fine._

…

A few days later, her parents invite them over for dinner. Three hours before Michael gives her a black eye. The two men of the house elect to go ahead, but Quinn stays home sick.

The next day Michael's at work, Aiden's in his room, and her mother shows up on her doorstep, gasping as Quinn opens the door a crack, eye swollen purple.

"Oh, Quinnie-"

"Hi mom…"

"What happened to you?"

She lets her in as her hair falls into her face, "I ran into a door. You know the swinging one to the kitchen? Aiden was coming in just as I was going out and _bang_, right in the eye. It doesn't hurt so much anymore. I can barely even feel it."

She says this as she busies herself making tea, placing two mugs on the coffee table and waiting for her mother to sit down on the couch.

"I assume you're feeling better, then."

"Much better."

"You didn't happen to cancel last night because of your eye?"

"Of course not! I think I had a stomach bug. You know how it is…"

She tries to smile as her mother only stares harder.

"Yes. I know all too well how it is."

She takes a sip from her mug, trying to be nonchalant. Her mother only keeps staring.

"Quinn, if he's hurting you-"

"He's _not, _mom. Michael wouldn't do that to me…"

"Then explain all your absences, please. _Explain_ all your injuries, all of your moods!  
Tell me why Aiden would think it's okay to hit another child because _Daddy does it_ if he doesn't hurt you!"

Her lip quivers, "We… _fight_ sometimes, maybe. It's nothing I can't handle."

Judy reaches up to lightly touch her daughter's bruised eye, but she recoils enough for her to draw back, "You call this handling it? Please honey… please, just talk to me…"

"What do you want me to say? That he hit me? Yeah, okay mom, he hits me! Does that make you happy?"

"No! No, I want you to leave him! Come take Aiden and live with us!"

They're both standing up now, screaming, and she softens her voice as she looks away.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"You stayed with Daddy."

"Your father never hit me!"

"He cheated on you. He _always_ cheated on you!" She yells with tears in her eyes. Her mother sighs, arms falling to her sides in defeat.

"I was too proud to leave him. I thought… I had to stay. But Quinn, you don't. You-"

"What do you expect? I learned from the best! I'm just as… proud as you. I…"

"There's _nothing _shameful in walking away from someone who doesn't respect you."

A car pulls into the driveway. She wipes her eyes.

"That's him."

Her mother prepares to leave as he strolls through the front door, whistling.

"Judy! Good to see you again! What brings you here?"

"Oh, I was just checking up on my daughter, Michael. Nice seeing you."

Quinn dumps the cold tea down the drain and crosses her arms as he places his hand on her shoulder.

"What was that about?"

She scowls, "Just my mother being nosy."

"Of course. You and your family…"

"Yeah," she laughs, "Of course…"

…

It's late at night. Michael's well into his whiskey bottle and the world has shut the door.

She can't remember why, but the first blow comes. And another, and another, and it's getting hard to see straight, and another and another, and she can't move.

_Maybe mommy had a point._

And another, and all there is is searing pain through every inch of her, and her mouth must be bleeding or the rug just tastes like copper, and she turns her face sideways so she doesn't choke on the blood sprouting from wherever.

There's more and she manages to curl up tight enough to protect herself somewhat, but soon it's useless and she can't feel anything except pain. Her body goes limp and she can't even cry out anymore as he kicks her in the head, neck snapping back and forth.

He steps on her fingers as he picks her up and somewhere far away she hears her baby screaming at her. How'd he get out of his room? He wasn't supposed to see this… _Stop it._

The last thing she sees is Aiden's mouth form a perfect O, tears streaming down his face as Michael flings her down the stairs. She feels herself tumbling, like rolling down a hill except the hill is filled with land mines, and hears a crack as she hits bottom and then-

Nothing.

…

She wakes to a flurry of noise and movement, squinting in the bright light. It must be morning or evening or afternoon, and there shouldn't be this many people in her house…

Except she's not at home. She's in a hospital bed with needles in her arms and her whole body feels like someone tossed her down a flight of stairs…

Well, that isn't funny anymore, considering someone _did_ throw her town a flight of stairs…

There are bright yellow flowers on her bedside table. Machines are hooked up to her, but they look like they're all off except for the heart monitor. Is that a good sign? She reaches up to touch her head and feels gauze. So he cut her head open, perhaps that's where the blood was coming from… The rest of her body just hurts, so maybe it wasn't serious. Maybe they'll let her go home now; it couldn't have been that long. Where's Aiden? He better not have missed preschool because of this… And how did she get to the hospital? Would Michael have brought her? No, he couldn't… did a neighbor hear and finally say something? Where is Michael now? Surely, he's angry that she isn't home. Angry that she's slandering the family name…

At that moment, she notices none other than Puck sitting in the chair next to her bed, grinning from ear to ear.

She goes to ask him what happened, but she can't move her tongue. There's a giant, saturated cotton ball stuffed into her cheek – she's surprised she didn't choke. What is _that _doing there? Would that be why she tasted blood last night?

She reaches up and pulls the cotton from her mouth, finding it soaked with spit and blood. Yes, definitely why she tasted blood. Tentatively, she pushes her tongue into her cheek and feels a distinct gash. At least it isn't bleeding anymore…

"He cut the inside of your mouth," Puck says slowly, gesturing with his hands, pointing at his own face, "They were going to see about giving you stitches, but I guess it stopped bleeding?"

She nods slowly and then stops. It makes her head hurt.

"You shouldn't move much. Want some water or something?"

He pours her a drink and she takes the paper cup, sipping slowly to wash out her mouth.

"I'm on Quinn duty," he smiles, putting the cup back down for her once she's finished, "Finally convinced your mom to go home and get some rest. Your dad's been in too, and your sister, some of your friends… Aiden's staying with your parents. No one's seen Michael since he… hurt you. The cops are looking for him."

"Well…" she coughs, voice scratchy with sleep, "It hasn't been that long, has it?"

"It's been… a little over a week. You have some swelling in your brain, so you were in a coma."

_Coma. Over a week. _How could she be out for that long? She has a son to take care of… her injuries aren't that bad…

"How's Aiden?"

"He's a little shaken up, wants to see his mom. Judy didn't let him visit much. She thought it would be best for him not to see you…"

"Oh. Well… that's good."

"She brought him once to convince him that you weren't dead. He was having nightmares from… that night."

"He saw me," she says slowly, "He saw _us_. I didn't… he shouldn't have seen that."

"He's the one who called 911."

"Did he tell you… what happened?"

"Not really."

"He was… hitting me. And then he… pushed me down the stairs."

He winces. She stares at the wall, noticing there's a dark purple bruise on her wrist. How many more could there be?

"You can't stay with him. If not for you, then for Aiden. He can't grow up like that."

As if he as any right to tell her what to do, "Why?"

"You almost _died _Quinn, do you get that? He _threw you down the stairs_. You're lucky it wasn't any worse."

She knows that. She's always known that. How does someone _not know that_? How does someone let someone else hit them in front of their child? How could she ever let Aiden live there?

But where was she supposed to go? To the women's shelter again? To Puck? To her parents? They wouldn't understand and she doesn't know how to leave. She can't leave. If she leaves she's a quitter and quitters never win…

"I know, Puck. But I can't just… walk away."

"Says who?"

She sighs, "I don't know."

…

They wait for her mother to get there.

Of course when she sees her all she does is cry, and all Quinn can do is whisper "I'm sorry" over and over again.

"It's not your fault. I should've never pushed him on you. I should've helped you…"

"You tried."

Her mother wipes her eyes, "I brought someone with me."

She smiles as Aiden comes around the corner, screaming "Mommy!" at the top of his lungs.

…

Two days later she's released from the hospital. They move in with her parents. By that time they find Michael and he's placed under arrest for domestic abuse, evading arrest, and threatening law enforcement. She avoids looking at her reflection in the mirror.

They return home once to pack up a few essentials. Aiden runs straight to his room to gather as many toys as he can carry. Puck follows him, glancing over his shoulder as he leaves. She stops and stares at the bloodstains on the crisp, white carpet.

Gently her mother nudges her along. She makes sure to grind her toes into each drop on every stair.

…

It's not easy, but it was never supposed to be.

She hates being so dependant on her parents. She was dependant on Michael, now she has to be dependant on them. It's not like she knows what else to do. She's been a stay at home mom since Aiden was born – with the family money and Michael's income, there was no need for her to work.

She finds herself sitting and staring out the window, waiting for something. She doesn't know what. She just wishes it would hurry up and get here.

Puck pulls in the driveway and takes Aiden to the park. They play games in the front yard and she watches in the window. _Why couldn't she have left with him in the first place?_

After Aiden's in bed, Puck comes to her side and gently places his hand on her shoulder. She only flinches a little.

They stand there, staring at the moon and stars.

"Why are you still here?"

His grip tightens. She turns and looks at him, at the worry constantly creasing his forehead, at the hands she's always longed to hold.

"Because I want to be. I want to… protect you."

She doesn't know why, but she slowly falls into him, arms limp at her sides. He folds himself around her, and it feels safe. For once in her life, it's safe.

"I'm sorry I ever left you."

"It's okay. We'll be okay."

And for once, maybe she will be.


End file.
